


Brugmansia

by muzakchan



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, OTP Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muzakchan/pseuds/muzakchan
Summary: It's the day after Armageddon, and Aziraphale is worried (which, albeit, is his natural state)





	1. The First Bit

Aziraphale woke up worried.

This wasn’t a particularly new phenomenon; he was a “worry-wart”, as humans had dubbed it and Crowley would tease. But this worry, on this morning, was caused by something different than the regular existential worry he carried everyday.

On this morning, the day after Armageddon, Aziraphale woke up in a place he didn’t recognize. Before he opened his eyes, he could tell something was off. It certainly felt like a bed, but it was much too comfortable to be his bed - being an angel, he had been worried about being tempted by Sloth, and as a result, had picked a horrendous bed. Sleep was technically possible, but it wasn’t good sleep.

Spreading his hands out over the sheets (and marveling at how soft they were), Aziraphale searched for his nightstand, though some part of him knew it would not be there. Instead of finding it, his hand brushed against something warm, something alive, some _one_.

His eyes shot open at this point, and he scrambled backwards, pulling himself out of the bed and onto his feet. Some _one_? Angels didn’t end up in a _bed_ with _someone_! Sloth was bad enough, but **_Lust_**? Certainly, he had gotten close before (there had been that magician, Houdini, in the 1900’s who had been able to do marvelous things with his hands), but Aziraphale had never crossed this line before.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered as he looked down at himself. “Oh, my.” He had nothing on, which was, again, not a new phenomenon, but it certainly had different connotations in this situation. Allowing himself some small amount of magic, he put his clothes back on, taking care to not make any noise, and snuck out of the room. Thankfully, this home had been designed in quite a brutalist manner, all concrete and no doors to squeak on his less-than-graceful exit.

It wasn’t until he was out of the bedroom that the events of the previous night started to come back to him. In fact, he had made it all the way to the kitchen before he remembered, and the implication of it made him weak at the knees. He sunk into one of the breakfast table chairs, placing a hand over his mouth.

“My bookshop,” he moaned into his hand. “My _books_.”

One can forgive Aziraphale for not remembering the events of the night before. Indeed, more had happened in the last day to the poor angel than had in almost a millenia; the bookshop had been the least of his worries. He’d been discorporated by that idiot Witch Finder Sargent, gone to Heaven, refused to join Armageddon (“Goodness me,” he muttered again), inhabited the lovely psychic woman’s body, and somehow averted Armageddon. And Crowley! Crowley had destroyed his car to reach Tadfield - to reach _him_ \- and had stood by _his_ side to face the Four Horsemen, Satan, and even Michael. Then Crowley had told him of the destruction of his beloved bookshop, and offered him a place to stay for the night.

A familiar feeling grew in Aziraphale’s stomach; a lovely, peculiar, squirmy feeling that he usually got while thinking of Crowley. It hadn’t always been there, perhaps occasionally dropping in if the light hit Crowley’s face _just_ right, but ever since the demon had saved his books in WWII, the feeling was a constant companion, no doubt exacerbating his general worry. He knew what it was, of course; he wasn’t an idiot. There just simply wasn’t anything to be done about it.

He stood from the chair, feeling a little more put together since recalling the previous day’s events, and tugged his jacket into place. “This must be Crowley’s place, then,” he said to no one in particular, choosing to ignore the piece of him that wanted to go back to the bedroom. “It’s certainly his style.” The angel made his way to the tea kettle in the kitchen to make himself - the both of them, really - some tea.

As the water was set to boil, Aziraphale couldn’t help but poke around the apartment. This was a part of Crowley he’d never experienced, which was saying something, as they’d known each other for nearly 6000 years. The place was well decorated, but sparse, allowing for plenty of movement and sprawling about. Most of the couches were lower, and took up great expanses of the rooms they were in, but _oh_ , were they soft. He ran his fingers over the plush seating and shivered in delight. The dining room table had a regal chair at its head, causing Aziraphale to chuckle. “Master of your domain, eh?”

He had no idea.

He turned a corner into the last room he would have expected to see in a demon’s apartment: Crowley’s plant room. And they were _lovely_. “Hello, you beauties!” Aziraphale exclaimed, unable to stop himself. The plants seemed to snap to attention at his proclamation. “Wha - how - you are stunning!” He reached out to lovingly stroke one of the large, verdant leaves of the Fiddle Leaf Fig. It seemed to respond to his touch, moving closer to him, begging to be touched more in this kind way. Aziraphale smiled, “It’s like you’ve never been loved before! Goodness!” The vines from the ceiling turned towards him and stretched their leaves, showing off. He ran his hands over each and every one, whispering as much praise as he could bestow on the plants. In response, the plants appeared to lift themselves up just a little bit taller, as if they were growing confident in themselves. An interesting plant in the corner of the room, lanky with bright orange conical flowers caught his eye. Unlike the other plants, it did not crave his touch, but stood proudly, allowing the morning light to shine on itself. “What are you, you marvelous creature?” the angel whispered to himself as he reached for a flower.

“Careful there, angel,” Crowley spoke from the doorway, causing Aziraphale to nearly hit the ceiling he jumped so high. The demon sauntered up next to the angel and lovingly picked up a flower. “This one’s called ‘ _Brugmansia_ ’; it’s very deadly, and it’s extinct in the wild, so don’t you go mucking it up.”

Aziraphale noted three things in quick succession:

  1. The plants had begun to strain even harder when Crowley walked into the room, as though they had hardly been trying at all before. Now, they seemed like they’d rip themselves out of their planters if that meant Crowley would be satisfied;
  2. Crowley was holding the tea pot, which was must have woken him up with its whistling, because;
  3. Crowley wasn’t wearing anything.



The final issue was much more interesting to him than the others, but he averted his gaze immediately back to the plant. " _Brugmansia_ ," he fumbled, trying to make conversation, "I haven't heard of that one before."

Crowley chuckled. It was a low laugh, but not unkind; more like he knew the punchline of a joke and was anticipating Aziraphale's reaction. "Yeah, it means 'Angel's Trumpet’." Aziraphale’s mouth fell open a fraction and Crowley’s smile widened. “They’re bloody difficult to grow, and full of hallucinogens - but not the good kind, don’t ask me how I know - but,” he tipped the flower he was holding up to show to Aziraphale, but kept his gaze firmly on the angel, “they do make a wonderful salve to soothe my aches and pains. And they’re stunning to look at, not like the REST OF YOU LOT!” Crowley’s volume increased suddenly as he whipped around to put the fear of Himself back in to the rest of his plants. The verbal abuse continued, but Aziraphale wasn’t listening. He was reeling from the information he had just taken in; the pleasant “Crowley” feeling in his stomach had turned into a maelstrom of emotion, which made him feel like he might be sick.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale managed to squeak out, not quite loud enough to be heard, but Crowley immediately stopped. They locked eyes, and for a moment, Aziraphale nearly spoke his mind. “Crowley, I -” “

Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale swallowed hard. Crowley looked so beautiful and his eyes, usually slits, were dilated despite the sun streaming in, and they _had_ woken up together, hadn’t they? Naked even! He swallowed again, summoned all of his willpower to not look down, and spoke: “I think I… would like some tea.”


	2. The Next Bit

To his credit, Crowley had taken wonderful care of Aziraphale. The angel was wrapped in a thick, downy blanket - swaddled, almost - seated on the main couch (which was the most luxurious) with a cup of tea firmly in his grasp. The first two times Aziraphale had tried to put the cup down, Crowley handed it back to him. He also kept refilling the cup with hot water, but failed to replace the bag, which had left Aziraphale with mostly a cup of hot water at this point. Still, it was a thoughtful gesture that did nothing to quiet the fury inside of Aziraphale's stomach.

"You sure you don't need anything else?" Crowley fussed as he wrapped his dressing gown around his thin waist. Aziraphale had made a point of refusing to talk unless Crowley had put some form of clothing on, which worked, much like it had the previous day - though the flashes of thigh were quite distracting.

"No, Crowley, I'm perfectly fine. Sit down!"

They stared at each other for a moment. Heavens, Aziraphale loved looking at Crowley. His amber eyes vaguely reminded Aziraphale of the flaming sword he once had given away, allowing humanity to start a new chapter outside of the controlling confines of Heaven or evil intentions of Hell.

“Crowley,” he began hesitantly, “what… what did we… I mean - you and I, we did _lots_ of things yesterday - saved the world, for one! - though, I suppose, really, Adam did that. But... why were we… that is, rather, did we... ?”

The unsaid words seemed to take forever to cross the space between the two immortal beings. These words had tried to make this jump countless times during the years, but each and every time, had ended up at the bottom of the unspeakable chasm. As the silence stretched on, Aziraphale grew more and more uncomfortable. Their silences were always a welcome respite from the bustling world, but this felt _different_ , as though they were on the cusp of something.

“Angel," Crowley finally said, "what do you remember from last night?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well, I remember being in Tadfield, and then you told me my shop had burned down -”

“Sorry about that.”

“- an-and then you said there were no good and bad sides anymore, just ‘our’ side, and we got on the bus.”

“Anything else?”

Pieces were coming back to Aziraphale, though it was becoming obvious to him that there were large gaps in his memory. “Oh... you pulled out your flask, said ‘To the Bentley’, and drank about half of it in one go. And then, then you offered it to me, and I took a drink. To be polite,” he added hastily. 

Crowley snorted. “That was hardly a polite drink, angel - you finished off the rest of it.”

“I - well, it had been a hard day!” Aziraphale protested, “I’d just lost my bookshop! And besides, it’s not like you didn’t just miraculously refill the flask!”

“And then?” Crowley prompted.

“And then I…” these memories were harder to pull up, quite hazy and disjointed - not like his usually impeccable memory at all, “I... might have finished off another of your flasks, yes, alright Crowley. Not my finest moment.” He did not add that the first thing he had remembered was placing his head on the demon’s shoulder at some point in the drive - after the first flask? - Crowley had jumped a bit at first, but… yes, he’d put his arm around Aziraphale and held him there for a moment. He felt his stomach heave, not altogether unpleasantly. He took another sip of hot water.

“No, angel,” Crowley butted in, interrupting the flashback, “you finished off _three_ more.”

Aziraphale blanched. “... _Three_?” he whispered.

Angels are not meant to consume Earthly food; they certainly can, as Aziraphale had reveled in the last 6000 years, but they don’t come standard with an ability to meter how much food or drink they consume. In the past, Aziraphale had used the guilty feeling instilled by Heaven’s constant gaze to keep him from going overboard, but that feeling had disappeared at some point last night. Without it to keep him in check, Aziraphale had gone what some might describe as “hog-wild”; the amount of alcohol he had consumed would have been enough to put a small fraternity of hearty men into the hospital.

Crowley nodded. “And that was just on the bus.” He was enjoying this; he’d spent so much time with Aziraphale, but last night had been the first time he’d seen the angel cut loose.

More memories were starting to come back to Aziraphale, each more forgotten and harder to place than the last, but there was something…

* * *

_He tossed down his third empty flask, having finished it off. "No, Crowley, look - I enjoy musical theater as much as anyone who lives in SoHo, but Sondheim can go to **HELL**!" the angel shouted into Crowley's ear; he thought he was being discreet. "I don’t care if he was a damn saint - just for Sound of Music!"_

_"Easy there, angel," Crowley reached down to pick up the flask, magically refilled it, and placed it back into Aziraphale's hand. His words said one thing, but his actions said "no, go further." Just like they always did. “I think it was Roger and Hammerstien.”_

_They were in the blessedly empty lobby of Crowley's building, walking towards the elevator._

_“Them too, then - ‘ford ev’ry stream’, indeed.” Aziraphale took another drink, diving into bottle #4. "Look, Crowley," he shifted topics abruptly, mouth half full of alcohol, causing it to dribble out of his mouth, "it doesn’t ma-*hic*-tter.” He swallowed the mouthful and continued. “What does matter is that_ we’re _never, ever - and I mean it - EVER going back to Heaven *hic* or Hell. They don’t_ want _us back!” The angel then stopped suddenly, grabbing Crowley by the shoulder and turning him around. “We can do whatever we want.” With more confidence than Aziraphale had shown in a century, he reached out a hand and put it on Crowley’s cheek. It was warm to the touch and much softer than Aziraphale could have imagined._

_“Angel -” Crowley began, but Aziraphale’s hand was gone. He’d moved faster than Crowley could have imagined to the door leading to the building’s staircase._

_“You’ll have to catch me first!” the angel shouted, throwing open the door. He paused a moment to look back at Crowley, shouted “Come on, my dear - make the effort!”, and threw the demon a wink before he was gone, dashing up the first few flights of stairs, and eventually slowing down to a walk, and heaving himself up the last few. Crowley was on the top floor, after all._

_Crowley had taken the elevator._

* * *

“Oh, no,” Aziraphael moaned, putting his head in his hands. He became vaguely aware that he had a pounding headache - did he have a _hangover_?

“Is it coming back to you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale nodded without removing his face from his hands, and looked up at Crowley through his fingers. “I think I have a hangover,” he said.

Crowley’s mirth became a kind-hearted smile. Well now, that wasn’t fair - Aziraphale was the only one allowed to give kind-hearted smiles. It made Crowley look even more handsome, invoking the memory of when he’d been an angel himself. “You didn’t sober up,” Crowley said, “You fell asleep on the bed before I could say, or do, anything.”

That would explain it.

“I’m only remembering bits and pieces of last night,” Aziraphale admitted, breaking eye contact. Though they got drunk together on a semi-regular basis (i.e. once every decade), this was the first time Aziraphale had truly forgotten himself (Heaven kept him more in check than he, or Crowley, had realized); if the face touching had been an indication, he was positive there were more things he’d likely done or confessed to. He had a running list of secrets in his head, of which the following is not a comprehensive list:

  * How many times he’d “taken care of” investors looking to buy his bookshop
  * Heaven’s plans for the _next_ Armageddon
  * The famous chefs who used store-bought pie crust in their Michelin star restaurants
  * The fact that he rather enjoyed Crowley’s driving because:
    * It was the only time he felt like he could fly again, and;
    * It meant that they were together
  * And the final, largest secret, which will not be written here, to spare a future Aziraphale some embarrassment, but Aziraphale was positive was written on his face



“Well, you were piss drunk” Crowley said, taking another swig, “and I _loved_ it; though you did drink another four of my whisky bottles - didn’t love that.” He toasted to Aziraphale with the bottle in his hand before taking another drink. “Would you like me to help you recall? I’ll warn you, angel - you may not like what you remember.”

Aziraphale was mortified, but his curiosity got the better of him, and so he nodded in response to Crowley’s question. The demon set the bottle down and moved closer on the couch. As the space between them diminished again, Aziraphale felt the crimson climbing up his face and the storm in his stomach. For the first time in his existence on Earth, Aziraphale was glad he hadn’t eaten anything recently. Crowley continued his advance and the angel began to chatter.

“Crowley, I… I’m not positive what I told you,” a half-truth, “but I-I don’t think you should believe a drunken angel,” probably a lie, “and I think you should know that I respect you as a friend and that I - ” Aziraphale’s rambling was stopped short by Crowley finally closing the space between them and softly nuzzling his neck. The angel had existed for longer than time itself, and he collected words for a living, but in this moment, he forgot every language he’d ever known; reduced to the single point at which Crowley’s forehead and nose were touching his _incredibly_ sensitive neck. He let out a small, involuntary sigh.

“You’re worse than those nuns when you’re nervous, angel,” Crowley murmured into his neck.

It was very difficult for Aziraphale to form sentences, so he simply nodded in agreement.

“I thought, all this time, that you were the good, pure, pious one, Aziraphale,” Crowley continued, savoring each syllable of the angel’s name, “but after last night, you know what I think now? You’ve been holding out on me all these years - I go too fast for you, do I?” Crowley pulled back and reached for the top of his dressing gown, pulling it away from his neck. His usual marble-white skin was mottled with red and purple spots; they were vaguely mouth-shaped. “Look what _you_ did to _me_ , angel.” Aziraphale’s hands flew to his mouth, then tentatively out towards Crowley’s neck, before thinking better of it and putting them back over his mouth. He then had the unfortunate experience of remembering.

* * *

_“Aziraphale, calm down, would you!” Crowley was breathless, shirtless, and in the process of pushing the angel away from him. Aziraphale came unstuck from the demon’s collar bone with a sucking noise. Physical intimacy came with strange noises, Aziraphale noted. Not unpleasant, just… strange._

_“Crowley, no one’s watching anymore! It doesn’t matter!” Aziraphale tried to dive in for another kiss, but Crowley’s arms were too long. He stamped his foot like a spoiled child. “Crowley, I’m not an idiot - I know this is what you want! I’m just trying to make you happy!” This had gone much better in his head._

_Crowley sighed. “But this isn’t what_ you _want, angel.”_

_"You don’t know that!” Aziraphale shouted. Why were they fighting? This was supposed to be their happy ending to Armageddon._

_“No, I do! You’ve spent millennia telling me to go away and to leave you alone - you barely even ride in the Bentley with me! You’ve told me time and time again, but I just don’t listen - you don’t want anything to do with me!” Crowley thundered. He pushed out of Aziraphale’s grasp._

_Aziraphale threw up his hands. “No, Crowley, I’ve been…!” he began, but was cut off as Crowley stormed off into the labyrinth of his apartment, hips swinging erratically. “I want everything to do with you,” he finished softly, before following Crowley. This apartment was new to him, and with no bearings to speak of, he teetered dangerously as he walked. He needed to get through this. Sober Aziraphale would choke halfway through, but eight-bottle deep Aziraphale? He could do this._

_“It’s been a long time since you were an angel,” he shouted, not sure where Crowley was or if he could hear him, “but… I can’t do anything halfway, especially not love - it’s part of being an angel. I… you and I… I couldn’t do anything about this… this… feeling I have for you, not with Heaven watching, but now, I… Look, I… I would give up Heaven and… and sushi and the Ritz, or… or books! Or the great, stupid, ineffable plan for you, Crowley!” He could hear his words slurring, and was only half positive his message was getting across. “You’re a demon, and you’re impulsive, and you usually only think about yourself, but… Crowley, the way Adam felt about Tadfield? I feel that about you, Crowley. I love -” He was cut short by slipping in a sticky goo on the floor. He hit the ground hard, with a solid “OOF” and lay for a moment, stunned._

_Crowley materialized out of nowhere, as though he’d been right by the angel all along. “Aziraphale!” he shouted._

_“I fell,” Aziraphale said._

_“Oh, right, that’d be Ligur.” Crowley extended a hand to Aziraphale to help him up. The angel’s clothing was covered in the goo._

_Through his drunkenness, Aziraphale tried to make sense of the statement. “Sorry - Ligur? As in, Duke of Hell Ligur?”_

_Crowley nodded. “Holy water’s a Heaven of a thing.”_

_Aziraphale looked down and back up again, the world spinning even more. “The holiest,” he agreed. “Crowley, did you hear me?”_

_“Let’s get you out of those clothes, angel,” Crowley answered._

* * *

Aziraphale understood.

He understood in the way that two lovers can look across the room at one another and understand; the way in which a married couple instinctively knows what their partner needs from a glance; the way in which lifelong friends know when to press the issue and when to let it be. They were all of those things, and Aziraphale understood. 6000 years of glances and unsaid words came together in this moment.

Crowley had heard him. And the feeling was mutual.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, looking away from Crowley. “You were right; I didn’t like that at all.” The angel let out a deep sigh. “I’ve made a complete fool of myself - I was a complete _ass_. Forgive me?”

“Oh, you absolutely made an ass of yourself,” Crowley agreed, “but I won’t forgive you, Aziraphale.” He took the angel’s hand and kissed the back of it, sending sparks through Aziraphale’s body. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he murmured, “and, besides, that’s more your area of expertise anyhow.” He kissed Aziraphale’s wrist softly.

Crowley’s kisses were settling Aziraphale’s stomach, replacing the ever-present tempest with a building heat. “But, Crowley,” the angel struggled to form the words, “I tried to, well, _force_ myself on you. That’s unacceptable - by angelic and human terms; surely by demonic as well.”

“Look, angel, it wasn’t that I _didn’t_ want the things you were doing to me - you could feel, I made the effort.” Crowley returned the wink Aziraphale had given him last night, and Aziraphale went scarlet - he remembered. “I just wanted you to be able to remember it fully; no sense in waiting 6000 years for a snog and not remembering any of it.”

“Crowley, I -” Aziraphale began. He was silenced by Crowley’s hand sliding up to cup his cheek, and a soft, chaste kiss from Crowley being laid upon his lips.

If their kiss were to be ranked, it would not make it very high on the list of best kisses, as technically speaking, it was not a very good kiss. There was a little too much pursed lip and perhaps one of them was initially unsure when the tongue really came into play. However, in terms of world-changing, the first kiss between Aziraphale and Crowley’s kiss ranks second, just after Adam and Eve’s.

They broke apart, and Aziraphale’s world spun again; this time in a good way. “Oh,” he said. “I like that.”

“Would you like me to do it again?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley obliged, kissing him deeper the second time. The kisses continued, gaining confidence as they progressed. There was a sense of relief as they pressed themselves together, a tension being released that had spent so very long being wound up. It was heavenly. No wonder humans did this so often.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered the next time they broke apart, minutes later, each slightly breathless. He rested his forehead against Crowley’s. “But I do have a question for you.”

“I love you too, angel.” The demon stroked his angel’s hair softly, holding him in the morning sun. “Go on.”

“I know why _I_ woke up naked this morning, but what about you?”

“Oh,” Crowley smiled, “I always sleep naked, angel - you’ll get used to it.” Aziraphale began to protest, but Crowley kissed his neck, rendering him effectively mute. He supposed, when reason came back to him, that it was something he could learn to live with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience while I agonized over how to end this little drabble. I hope y'all enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a second chapter (at the very least), but I wanted to get this much out there when it was complete :)


End file.
